


Mismatch

by Annabelle_W



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Not Related, Enemies to Lovers, Hunter Dean Winchester, M/M, Man of Letters Sam Winchester, POV Alternating, POV First Person, Sirens, Smoker Dean Winchester, Tattooed Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:54:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28116531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annabelle_W/pseuds/Annabelle_W
Summary: Sam Winchester couldn't be more excited to go on his first case and officially join the ranks of the Men of Letters.  Then he learns that he's been paired with a Hunter.  Dean Campbell is everything Sam hates about the nomadic monster killers: loud, brash, and impulsive.At least he'll never have to see him again after this.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 26
Kudos: 71





	1. Mission

Sam's POV:

Green eyes shot with gold and fringed with heavy black lashes. Full, pouty pink lips brush against my cheek on their way to nibble on my earlobe and whisper-

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

I blink awake, drag both hands down my face in a fruitless effort to wipe away my drowsiness. 

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Right. I groan, punch the off switch on my alarm. (Seriously, why couldn't it have waited to start blaring until after my dream came to its, um, conclusion?)

The blankets shuffle beside me, muttering a slurred query about--I think--the time. They roil and toss before dislodging a head of tousled near-black hair. Mick. Uh, oh. Did I . . . ? Did we . . . ? A quick rundown of yesterday evening reveals a few too many glasses of wine, a debate over grindylows, several episodes of Merlin, and--thankfully--no more flirtation than usual. Good. We just slept together. We didn't, well, sleep together.

I clear my throat. "I hope someone put the coffee on."

"Or the tea," comes the yawned reply.

I'm revived enough to grin. "You can always microwave some water."

A pillow whaps my cheek.

*

Mick and I have been (close) friends for fifteen years, ever since the British branch sent him here to be an exchange student when he was thirteen. Eleven-year-old me was fascinated by his accent, his mannerisms, his experiences. "I'm not a legacy," he told me once, "so I had to prove my worth."

I scooted so close to his (at the time) bigger body that waves of his heat curled against my side. "How?"

His hands curved restlessly into intricate patterns. When he spoke, his voice was low, emotionless. "They gave my best friend and me a knife and told us that the only way to advance in the Letters was for one of us to kill the other."

My gasp echoed through Mick's small Bunker room. 

He wrapped a wiry arm around my skinny frame. "Turns out the knife is spelled to only make it look like someone dies. Tim's okay, but"--nails dug into my shoulder--"he doesn't remember me or anything about the MOL."

*

Adult Mick follows me into the War Room, the two of us freshly fed and garbed in casual suits, his blue (to match his eyes?) and mine charcoal. We're met with gazes brimming with speculation and approval. The Men (and Women) definitely know we spent the night together. Higher-ups from both sides of the Atlantic have been not-so-subtly pushing us together for years. They've probably already picked out the surrogate to carry our children.

Mick rises onto his tiptoes to murmur "You've got this" in my ear.

I barely have time to clasp his forearm in thanks before Grand Master Henry Winchester--my grandfather--stands up and the room goes silent.

Mick gives my arm a final squeeze, then slips away to sit in a corner of the room beside Eileen, an Apprentice from the Dublin chapter house. Leaving me standing alone near the center of the room, facing the elders, facing my fate.

Henry ignores the cane his wife proffers to him, choosing instead to fold his hands behind his back as he walks forward a few steps. "Apprentice Samuel Winchester wishes to join our ranks as a full member," he announces.

I duck my head in a slight bow. "I do, sir."

Henry's eyes soften, his formality lessens. "Good," he says. "Are you ready for your field test?"

I think I feel my eyes sparkling in anticipation. "I am, sir." I dare a glance at Mick; he grins, giving me a discrete thumbs up.

"Excellent." Grandpa's lips twitch as he suppresses a smile. "Master Singer has found a case for you." He returns to his seat.

Bobby Singer rises to his feet, carries a folder over to me. "Four men in Dubuque murdered their wives. All claim to have been happily married." A grimace. "You'll need to take out the bastard that impersonated them or brainwashed them or possessed them or whatever." His fists fall into a clench after he releases the folder into my grasp. I recall suddenly that Bobby had to kill his own wife after a demon possessed her. He subsequently proceeded to amass so much knowledge, artifacts, and antique books of lore that he wound up becoming one of the vanishingly few Hunters invited to join the Men of Letters. 

I quickly flip through the contents of the folder--graphic photos of the victims, descriptions of the perpetrators, a map of the city with the locations of the murders circled--and nod. "I'll leave immediately."

A throat clears behind me. "You won't be working alone. You know the policy, Sam." Only my father can make me feel like I'm again a ten-year-old caught stealing Lucky Charms.

And just like that ten-year-old I was sixteen years ago, I find myself bristling. Our fights during my adolescence were legendary, culminating in my eventual declaration that I wanted nothing to do with the Letters and planned to study law instead and his reply that, if I did so, I would never again be welcome in the Bunker. That might have been that (Winchester stubbornness being what it is) but three months into my senior year, my girlfriend burned on the ceiling--a death so obviously supernatural that justice could never come from ordinary means. After a sobbing, apologetic (on both sides) phone call, I met with the Elders and became an Apprentice. To Dad's delight, I abandoned law in favor of seeking a PhD in Anthropology. My dissertation on vampire folklore around the world led to the identification of four previously unknown species of vampiric monsters. And now Master John Winchester is treating me like a child. I turn slowly. "I meant, I'll leave immediately with my partner, sir."

John regards me coolly, his hands folded casually over his waistcoat, his long legs crossed at the ankle. He lifts an eyebrow on a face that has only grown handsomer with age. (Ever since my mother grew ill of being always second place to a secret society and left, John's been inundated with women of all ages aspiring to replace her). "Good" is all he says.

Henry rises to his feet again, joined this time by Josie. My grandmother died of breast cancer before I was born and--I'm told--it didn't take longer than a couple years for Henry to escort the still-striking Miss Sands out of the friendzone. (Helped along, apparently, by the scheming of nearly all his MOL colleagues). "I was paired with Josie for my first field case"--he encases her statuesque form beneath one arm--"and it created an unbreakable bond between us."

She hugs him back. "We fought a Knight of Hell."

His eyes smolder as if he's about to kiss her. "Yes. We didn't expect to face Abaddon. But my Josie hit her with such a strong exorcism that she still hasn't crawled out of Hell."

The only grandmother I've ever known actually blushes. "We hope your experience will be as memorable as ours."

"I hope so, too." I carefully avoid looking at Mick as I wait for the Elders to inform me that he's the one I'll be working with. (Maybe I'll even please them by letting our relationship finally move to the next level).

"Excellent." Henry smiles. "Your partner will pick you up at the local Gas-n-Sip in an hour."

" . . . What?" This means my companion for the next week or longer isn't Mick or Dad or even Eileen. "Um, who?" I swallow. "Who am I working with?"

Josie gives a fond look. "One of the Campbells. Dean."

"A Hunter?" My jaw drops in disbelief. They expect me to get along with one of those uncouth narcissists? Sure, they have their uses--someone needs to shoot all the werewolves--and we Men of Letters are always more than willing to share our knowledge or, if needed, our weapons, but to actually spend time with one, collaborate with one. "Why?"

No one hears me because Bobby and Dad both lean forward to ask "Mary's son?" in almost perfect sync.

"I believe so, yes." Henry smooths his tie before reclaiming his chair.

"Why?" I ask again, louder. "Were there no Agents available? Or another Apprentice?" I gesture pointedly in the direction where Mick and Eileen sit side by side.

I'm not sure when they got up, but both Bobby and John are in my face, speaking over each other. I catch snippets, like, "if he's half as good as her" and "best Hunter I ever met" followed by "brilliant and fearless" as well as "shot up that wendigo without any hesitation" and "took out an entire nest."

I raise my hands. "Okay, I get it. You're both in love with her."

The two men back up slowly, staring warily at each other. There's far too long a pause before either of them denies it.

Great. So not only am I partnering with a Hunter, but he's the son of a woman who had a fling with both my father and the man I consider an uncle. And they both still carry a torch for her. Just great.

*

Dad drops me off in the middle of tiny Lebanon after filling the short car ride with as much advice as he could fit in. "Always clean your weapons after every use." "The university library is your best resource." "Update us every night." "Interview everyone who had any involvement, no matter how small." And, "Listen to Mr. Campbell; he's been hunting all his life."

I refrain from pointing out that I've been training to find, categorize, and catch monsters all MY life. But I might slam the door of Dad's SUV a little too harshly.

His window rolls down. "Hey, son!?"

Uh, oh. I'm about to get lectured on the proper treatment of motor vehicles.

"Tell Dean to say hi to Mary for me." His face blooms ruddier than the balmy weather suggests.

I roll my eyes. "Fine."

*

I cross the street to get to the Gas-in-Sip, look around for a hick slouching near a beat-up truck. I don't spot one. Well. This is rural Kansas, so, more accurately, I don't spot one who looks young enough to be the son of my father's former flame.

I cast my eye further, taking in not just the cars getting serviced, but those in the parking spaces on the outskirts of the lot.

A sleek black classic gleams in the sun, catching my attention. We Men of Letters drive nondescript, utilitarian, state-of-the-art vehicles, so I know little of classic autos, but there's no denying this one's beauty. I allow myself a moment to skim my gaze along her gorgeous curves and lines until my view is disturbed by the solid presence of what must be her owner.

He leans against the driver's side door, denim-clad (bowed?) legs crossed, the sleeves of his red plaid flannel rolled up to reveal muscular arms decorated with intricate tattoos, most of which appear to be protective sigils. As I watch, he lifts one hand to his mouth to take a long, lazy drag from (ugh) a cigarette. Smoke curls from a pair sensuously full lips and rises past unrealistically chiseled cheekbones and wide, light-colored eyes. Which narrow threateningly at me.

"Stop staring at me if you don't want to lose your eyes." Of course his voice drawls with gravely depths that must be the result of his disgusting nicotine habit (look, he's expelling more toxic fumes from that pretty mouth) and enough potential danger to make me shiver.

I don't need introductions to know I've just met Dean Campbell.


	2. A Week Ago

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas!

Dean's POV:

As always when I enter the Roadhouse, the patrons gawk at me before turning to their companions and whispering all they've heard about my exploits. Apparently, I once single-handedly took out a vampire nest and a werewolf den and still had time to meet a blonde coed for drinks and dessert. Also, I hear I decimated an entire family of cannibal shapeshifters, exorcised a roomful of demons, staked a dozen demigods, and charmed the literal pants off every member of a sorority. 

I smirk, add an extra swagger to my walk.

A sharp nail flicks against my cheek. "If you looked any more smug, your head would explode from the swelling."

I look down to find Jo grinning archly up at me. "And if you looked any more jealous of my awesomeness, your face would turn green."

She sticks out her tongue at me. "You wish you were as cool as me," she insists, with a shake of her golden mane. 

A few blonde hairs catch on my stubble, reminding me that I might want to shave sometime this week. I brush them off. "You're only cool because you copy your awesome big brother." I point at myself.

She rolls her eyes. "Keep thinking that, bro." She spins off, head held high.

I grab her before she's out of reach, pull her into my arms. "Missed you," I murmur, kissing the top of her head.

"Missed you, too," she whispers into my chest.

*

I take a seat at the bar, pull off my jacket, roll up my sleeves. A peek around shows numerous surreptitious admiring glances. Safe to say, I have my pick tonight, unless, "Hey, Ash, you got anything for me?"

Ash peers blearily over his laptop, eyes bloodshot, mullet snarled. Someone hit the bong earlier. "Depends on how far you want to drive."

"My Baby's up for it." I wink.

"I see you still prefer your car to real thing," a cool, melodic voice observes from my other side. Cassie Robinson slides onto a barstool and opens her own laptop, immediately starts clicking and typing at such a rapid pace her slender fingers meld into a light cocoa blur. She really does have the most beautiful skin I've ever seen.

I wrench my gaze away from Cassie's graceful hands to meet her huge dark eyes. "I don't always have to make a choice," I remind her, raising an eyebrow, hinting at nights we spent tangled in the backseat of my Impala.

She flips her gorgeous curls over her lithe shoulders, cheeks noticeably pinker than they were a moment ago. Cassie has technically been my ex for six years, but she and I have a tendency to end up in bed nearly every time our paths cross. Which occurs fairly often. Cassie wanted to be among those who carried on with their lives after an encounter with the paranormal, but her inquiring reporter's mind simply wouldn't let her. So, she publishes articles on urban legends, folklore, and "mythological" creatures, which earn her a living while allowing her to provide enormous help to the Hunters' community.

(The less often we have to call on the MOL Agents for monster identification and disposal, the better).

A pair of lovely brown fingers walk from the keyboard across the worn wooden bar top and up my arm to trace my tats. A pair of lips follows their path. Mmm. I think it's safe to say I won't be spending the night alone.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

My personal phone is ringing NOW? Seriously? I consider ignoring it, but only a select (very) few have this number, so it has to be important. It might be Mom. It might be someone with information about Mom. Mom might be injured. I hurry to answer, with an impatient, "Yeah?"

"Dean Campbell," a mellow, vaguely familiar voice responds, right as the bell over the door dings.

Mary Campbell saunters in. The call isn't Mom or related to Mom, then. "How did you get this number?"

"We have our ways." My interlocutor sounds amused.

I figure it out. "Agent Henriksen."

"Victor," he corrects.

"Vicky," I snark. Victor Henriksen, late of the FBI, spent over a year following me around the country, convinced--not without merit, if one's unaware of the supernatural--that I was a serial killer. He finally managed to catch me when I was distracted by a demon. Needless to say, he figured out pretty quickly how wrong he'd been about me. His method of apology was very well received, left both of us immensely satisfied. Then. Instead of becoming a Hunter (as my partner, maybe), the traitor joined the Men of Letters.

"Charming as ever, I see." A brief pause. "Or hear, I suppose." He laughs.

"What do you want, Victor?" I growl.

"I have a hunt for you." He sounds weirdly proud. It annoys me.

"I can find my own hunts." I watch my mother get nearly the identical reaction by the Hunting community as I did. Stares and whispers. And speculating glances from every man over the age of forty, since Mary remains an attractive woman in her mid-fifties, all blonde curls, confidence, and slender curves. She smiles when she spots me, quickens her step.

"Four men murdered their wives in Dubuque," Victor continues, as if I'd said nothing. "All confessed, all were happily married. Still not interested?"

Actually, that does sound intriguing. I grab Cassie's computer, start looking up Iowa homicides. "Fine. Mom and I will check it out." I smile a greeting when Mary perches on a nearby stool. "You remember my mother, right? Mary Campbell. The Bureau has a very thick folder on her, I understand."

A bored tone. "Yes, your mother is legendary. But you're going to be paired with one of our own, instead."

"No." Some pansy Agent following me around?--I don't think so. I barely notice Cassie yanking her laptop back and stomping off in a huff.

"According to my research, all of these men were known to visit a certain strip club. And, of course, you'll be well compensated," he intones. "But, fine, I'll ask another Hunter. Maybe you should pass your phone to the lovely Ms. Campbell."

A strip club case? "All right. Whatever. Who do I have to babysit?"

"Sam Winchester."

*

"Winchester?" Mom asks, a small smile playing on her lips.

"Yeah." I study her. "Why? You know this Sam?" 

Her eyes soften. "No, but I knew John. His Dad."

Please tell me Sam's Dad isn't one of Mom's exes. "Oh."

"Yeah." She actually sighs dreamily. "Did I ever tell you he's the one who originally bought the Impala?"

"What?" No, she really didn't ever tell me that. I thought Baby's purchase was entirely Mom's decision.

She leans on her hand, and her eyes lose focus as she stares into the past. "John and I were pretty serious for a time. I was thinking of getting out of hunting and he was ready to settle down. Of course he didn't tell me I would be expected to be good little housewife while he did important Letters things, but it's not like I shared that I was a Hunter." Her sharp gaze meets mine for a moment. "Anyway, he wanted to get some van and I guess I was fine with that, but then I spotted the Impala and told him he had to get that instead." A quick, predatory grin.

"So, how did you end up with it?" Why would anyone give Baby away? (Granted, Mom gifted her to me, but that's not the same thing. She can still see her and ride in her and occasionally drive her.)

She blinks, swallows. "So, there were all these reports of people--women--suddenly getting riches or fame or husbands. We--my parents and I--thought it might be a crossroads demon, so we tracked it down. But it had yellow eyes instead of red. And." A tear bubbles in her left eye.

Oh. My grandparents were killed by demons. She's never much about what exactly happened to them. This must be it.

"He"--a gulp--"he possessed my father and used his hands to take out my mother. Then he turned to me. But. He didn't want to kill me. He tried to bargain with me for my parents. And then." Her face clears. "John showed up. He was wearing a suit and he had a recording of an exorcism. Not the standard one we all learn but a special one just for powerful demons." She folds her hands, looks down at them. "Anyway. That's how I found out he was an agent. I told that wasn't really what I was looking for in a husband and he kind of nodded and said I should take the Impala--that I'd always loved her better, anyway."

I'm still trying to formulate my reaction to this story when a new voice speaks up. "You talkin' about John Winchester?" Ellen strolls into my line of sight.

Mary glares. "Please tell me you didn't date him, too. One shared man is enough."

My stepmother glares back. "More than enough."

My fingers itch for a cigarette, but Ellen banned smoking in the Roadhouse after she quit two years ago, so it's not an option. Five years after my birth, my father, William Harvelle, married Ellen. Jo came into the world three years after that. And the enmity between the two women has never lessened. Before the two of them can dredge up all the reasons they hate each other (side note: it's never surprised me that my father got involved with two such similar women), I intervene, "So you know something about the Winchesters?"

Ellen nods. "I sure do. John killed your father."

Three gasps. One from me, one from Mary (with more than a tinge of disbelieving outrage), and the third from Jo, who has conveniently just walked over to our little convo. 

Murderous rage glitters in Ellen's eyes. "That Agent"--the word is spit out with venom--"used Bill as bait in a Rugaru hunt."

Mary leaps to her feet. "There's no way that happened. John wouldn't do that!"

"Wouldn't he?" Ellen hisses. "Those Men of Letters think we're all expendable."

*

Eight days later:

Lebanon might have the misfortune to be the most boring town I've ever visited. It doesn't have a movie theater or a real grocery store or even a bowling alley. And I think I counted exactly two bars. The diner looks passable, though. I suppose.

At least it's warm enough to remove my jacket and show off my ink.

I relax against my Baby, light a smoke. The nicotine sinks gloriously into my system, working with the morning sun to relax and rejuvenate me. Aww. My eyes drop closed in contentment. 

This, naturally, is when I feel judgmental eyes upon me. Must be the prepubescent kid the MOL foisted upon me. Yup. That grey suit must cost more than most people make in a month. What a douche. "Stop staring at me if you don't want to lose your eyes."

The brat marches over to me, offers his hand. "You must me Mr. Campbell."

"Mr. Campbell was my grandfather." The child doesn't need to know that I never met him. "I'm Dean." I take a long, slow drag of my Marlboro, blow smoke in his dewy-eyed face.

The arm his raises to cover his cough stretches the charcoal wool of his suit jacket over a well-muscled bicep. The kind of ripped developed through hours in the gym instead of actual hard labor. "Could you not?!" He glowers.

I inhale more chemical-laden smoke, the nicotine all the sweeter due to this child's disgust. "Sorry if it offends you." I glance down at my nearly-finished cig. "Wait, no, I'm not."

He huffs. "Let's just go. The sooner we get there, the sooner we'll be done." He doesn't add, the sooner we'll never have to see each other again, but I hear it loud and clear.

Strip clubs, I remind myself. Monetary compensation. "All right, your highness. Let's get this show on the road."


	3. Music

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having a difficult time with Dean's characterization in this story. His personality is so intertwined with his relationship with Sam that it's hard--for me--to imagine a fully fleshed-out Samless Dean.
> 
> So, I welcome any criticism/suggestions.

Sam's POV:

I expect the interior of the Hunter's car to be cluttered with fast food bags and polluted with the stench of rot and smoke. Instead, I find (after gingerly opening the passenger side door) that it's so scrupulously clean that the leather seats practically sparkle in the sun beaming through the crystalline windows. A quick sniff reveals a lemony scent, perhaps from his cleaning supplies, and only the faintest whiff of tobacco, leading me to suspect he doesn't smoke in here.

I duck back out from where I'd been leaning into the doorway. "Where should I put my bag?"

"In the trunk." Dean crosses over to me. "Here. I'll take it." He gapes at my Louis Vuitton valise for several seconds before shaking his head while rolling his eyes. "Trust an Agent to have something pretentious." His disgusted sneer doesn't fade until the trunk closes on my belongings.

I refrain from expressing surprise that a Hunter knows a multisyllabic word in favor of correcting his assumption. "I'm not an Agent yet."

He gives me a very slow once-over. "You do look barely out of high school. Let me guess, you're an intern?"

I flush. "I'm twenty-six!"

A skeptical raised brow.

"I have a PhD in Anthropology."

He remains conspicuously unimpressed.

"And, anyway, I'm an Apprentice. I'll be an Agent after this"--I gesture between us--"mission."

"Riiiiggghhht." He draws the word out a ridiculously long amount. A mischievous spark ignites his (handsome) face. "Guess that means I'm the Obi Wan to your Anakin. Better start calling me Master, young Padawan." He looks way too pleased.

I don't bother to reply. But I make sure to slam the door as vehemently as I can after folding myself into the car.

*

I automatically reach back to strap myself in after settling onto the bench, but, "Where's the seatbelt?"

Dean's eyes might get permanently stuck from being rolled so often. "Aren't any. Car was built without 'em."

I grit my teeth. "You do know you can get them installed?"

"Baby's perfect the way she is." He pats the dashboard.

There's some truth to that statement. Still, I would have added seatbelts and a CD player. And maybe . . . . "Ooh, listen to that engine!" Did I say that out loud?

I'm gifted a genuine smile that brightens the Hunter's face and produces crinkles curving beside verdant eyes. "See? Perfect."

"Yeah," I breathe, not entirely certain I'm talking about the car.

His smile fades when he catches my eye, expression becoming inscrutable. Is popping a cassette into his outdated stereo and turning the sound way up his method of avoiding further conversation? Not like I wanted to make small talk with him anyway.

*

Led Zeppelin. AC/DC. Pink Floyd.

I rub my forehead. "Do you have anything that came out after you were born?" Seriously, what is with this guy and seventies music?

Green eyes narrow. "Why doesn't it surprise me that you don't like classic rock?"

"I didn't say that." Once, Mick and I found a box labeled "Mystical weed" and decided to try it out. We spent the whole afternoon zoning while listening to the Eagles' records we discovered not far away. So, I'm not opposed to classic rock. It's just, "There's nothing wrong with diversifying with another decade."

He glares at the empty highway. "Sure. I know!--Let's listen to some emo tunes. Then we can put on eyeliner and talk about our feelings."

Eyeliner rounding those pretty eyes, making those emerald irises pop. I bite my lip. Right. He was disparaging my taste in music, despite knowing nothing about the topic. "The only halfway decent emo song is 'The Black Parade.' Otherwise, I'm really not a fan of the genre. Thanks for making assumptions about me." 

"Whatever."

We don't speak for quite some time after that. But the next tape Dean slips into the player is Bon Jovi.

*

The trip feels interminable, but we actually arrive in Dubuque around dinner time.

"So, do you want to check in first or eat first?" I ask as we drive past the first houses and gas stations.

"That place looks good." Dean points at a Holiday Inn.

I wrinkle my nose, picturing stained ceilings, unidentifiable smells, and cockroaches. "We already have reservations at the Hilton."

He keeps driving with an aggrieved air. "Of course we do." He taps a restless rhythm on the steering wheel. "You guys better be paying for it."

"You won't need to worry about funds for anything on this trip." Wow, this guy . . . . 

"I wasn't worried," he mutters.

Sure, you weren't, I think but don't say.

*

Dean pulls into the Hilton parking lot without ever once asking directions or looking at a map. When he notices me staring, he merely shrugs. "Not my first time in Dubuque." He hops from the car, has a cigarette lit before I completely open my door. (My suspicion that the man never smokes in his beloved car turned out to be entirely true).

I pause awkwardly a few feet away from him. "Should I get checked in or do you want me to wait for you?"

He gives an impatient wave in the direction of the lobby. That answers that.

When I return with our keys, he's leaning casually against the car, one arm on the roof, a cancer stick (almost certainly not the same one) dangling from his fingers. "All set then?"

I nod. "Yeah."

He flings his smoke across the lot, sending tiny showers of sparks bouncing along its path. "Good. I'm starved." He steps away from his car door so he can open it. "After we eat, we're heading straight for the strip club."

What?!

*

Dean practically bounces on his feet while we wait to get into the club. Guess he really likes strippers. Not that I'm opposed to watching a half-naked hottie dance around, but I'd prefer it if she (or he) did so in the privacy of our bedroom and because she (or he) wanted to give me a show, not because it's her (or his) job. 

And why am I picturing my companion in sparkly underthings all of a sudden?

I turn away from his chiseled profile, my face burning. I cover up my risque thoughts by chatting about the case. "I did some research and you're right. All the men did come here. Regularly. It's strange, considering they were all happily married."

"Not really." Dean inches forward, as the line finally starts to move. "They could have been coming here on business or with their buddies or they could just like the vibe."

I'm skeptical. When I picture strip club patrons, I see barely-legal teens and middle-aged creeps, not ordinary husbands. But when we make it into the interior of the club, it's clear that Dean has a point. Most of the men might be just what I expected, but there are many groups of suited men clearly relaxing after work, groups of attractive guys socializing with friends, and a surprising number of women.

Dean grins at me.

I can't resist smiling back.

*

Interviews with the staff reveal four remarkably similar stories. These men started coming here with work friends, showed appreciation for the dancers but none the sleazy open lust of men planning to cheat, then-

"He started spending time with this girl. She looked like one of our dancers, but I never met her and she didn't have any sets. At least, not that I saw."

"I saw him just, like, bump into this girl. I don't know what she was doing in here. She looked like a librarian or something."

"So, he was getting all cozy with this guy. Like a total hottie, but. I don't know. I thought he was straight. Didn't he have a wife?"

"He wasn't one of those guys who's always hitting on us, you know? But then he was suddenly always with one of us. At least she was dressed like us. Didn't know her, though."

Dean and I consider each other silently for some time after hearing these testimonies and retiring to a corner with drinks. "Well," he comments, tracing a groove in the wooden table, "Sounds like it's not the same girl." A quick, smirking glance up. "Especially since one of them wasn't a girl."

"Could have been a love spell," I suggest. There are plenty of documented cases of witches wreaking havoc on towns, often for petty revenge or lighthearted mischief. (Witches being as prone to irrational behavior as the rest of us).

"There weren't any hex bags." He taps the table, fingers moving in a hypnotic rhythm that it takes me far too long to realize are keeping time to the beat. 

"But there wouldn't be," I argue. "Love spells are personal. The hex bags would be placed directly on the victims person. Or the ingredients could be mixed into someone's drink."

Dean studies his craft beer for a nervous second. He shrugs, takes a drink. "Naw, I don't buy that. It's something else."

"Okay, like what?" Why didn't I bring my laptop in here?--I'm itching to tap into the Letters' online archives to see if a similar case has ever come up.

A rough hand lifts my chin, turns my head to face the nearest stage. "Like we're in a strip club. Live a little." He leans forward, eyes twinkling merrily in the strobe lights. "Do I need to teach you how to have fun, young Padawan?"

I gulp. He can't possibly have meant that the way it sounds. "Okay, first. The original films were way better than the prequals. And, second. I would be Luke, not Anakin."

He relaxes against the dark padding on his bench. "Guess that makes me Han Solo. I'll take it." His gaze drifts past me, probably to land on a dancer. Intriguingly, his expression brims with admiration, not lasciviousness. Almost like he's appreciating a work of art. Huh. A moment later, his attention returns to me. His grows loose, his visage smug. Clearly, he's imagining himself as a dashing space captain. 

I press as close as I can get with the table between us. My eyes narrow. "More like Leia."

His lips twitch to a frown then up into a smirk. "She is pretty awesome," he concludes. "Hot, too."

Something tells me I didn't win this exchange.


	4. My Type?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who helped me "find" Dean for this story. (Especially Eilonwy_the_white). What helped the most was remembering that this version is still a big brother. After all, being a protective older brother is a huge aspect of Dean's canonical personality.

Dean's POV:

You could fit my Baby and the bar from the Roadhouse inside my hotel room and still have space left over. Why do rich people need this much room?--Do they routinely invite everyone they know over for coke parties or something?

I try to picture starched, repressed Sam Winchester at a coke party and fail.

The thought of the guy standing amongst strung-out partiers, wearing his suit and looking around in confusion, or, better yet, lecturing everyone in sight on the evils of drugs, does bring a chuckle to my lips, however.

I'm still smiling as my Hunter eyes dart around, cataloguing the exits and potential hiding spots in my luxurious (temporary) quarters. Gigantic bathroom complete with a glass-doored shower big enough for four and a (separate!) whirlpool tub. Walk-in closet. Balcony (score!). Bedframe nailed to floor and wall and designed so that no one could fit underneath.

Good.

I quickly secure the room with salt lines and hex bags and monster booby traps (holy water has many uses).

After I finish, I find myself standing between the (enormous) bed and the (colossal) tv, staring around and half expecting security guards to storm in and inform I'm not actually allowed to stay here. I fight vampires and werewolves on a daily basis and this is what I find surreal. I scratch the back of my head. Figures.

My eyes slide over the pristine white comforter to the orderly pile of fluffy pillows. Are those chocolates?

Okay, no more emo discomfort. This hotel is awesome!

I snap a quick picture to send to Jo with the accompanying text, "Jealous yet?" before throwing myself onto that inviting mattress. My body sinks delightfully into its softness. Mmm. Yes. I can definitely get behind this. All I need is some company. My mind conjures up a curvy brunette undulating on my lap, ample breasts bouncing enticingly. Or. How about a tall, powerful male crawling between my legs, nudging my thighs apart as he bites down on my left nipple? Hazel eyes peer at me through a curtain of dark hair just before he lines himself up and-

BEEP.

Seriously?--Just when I was getting to the good part? I snatch my phone from where I dropped off to the side on this ten-person bed, flip it open. Jo. Nothing like the thought of my baby sister to make me wilt so quickly it nearly hurts. "Save some for me, jerk!"

Save some what? Oh, she means the chocolate. Yeah, right. I tear open and devour all three pieces, nearly moan at the decadent richness. Even the treats here are amazing. I text back, "Too late, little sis!"

"Pig," she responds.

"Takes one to know one." That tiny girl can out-eat anyone. I don't know where she puts it. I stand up, cross to the French doors and peep through the diaphanous curtains. Too dark to see much. "How's everything at the RH?" My heartrate speeds up slightly. I always feel weirdly vulnerable when I ask how Jo (or anyone) is faring, no matter how indirectly.

A suspiciously long pause. "Gordon asked me out."

There's no question Gordon's sexy and mysterious and among the best Hunters out there, but . . . . I smash the call button, start talking the moment she picks up, "Okay, a) we are not sharing boyfriends and 2) I thought you finally decided to give Ash the time of day."

"You and Gordon?" she hisses. "When?"

"Couple months ago." A pair of amazingly talented lips, but there's no way I'm telling her that. "But-"

"But nothing!" Now she sounds furious. "You don't run my life!" 

"I'm just saying-"

She interrupts again. "No. If you want a say in anything I do, you should come home instead of running around with a Winchester." She spits out the name like it tastes disgusting. "You heard what Mom said." She hangs up before I can respond.

Man, I need a smoke. 

I pop a cigarette in my mouth, fumble for my lighter, already focused on the relief that's mere seconds away. Just as I'm thumbing the lighter, I catch sight of a no smoking sign. "Are you kidding me?!" I should have known that health-nut hipster I'm traveling with would get me a smoke-free room.

Good thing it has a balcony. (If I had to go all the way outside--across several hallways, down the elevator, through the lobby--I would been far too tempted to stop on the way to murder a Winchester).

I'm breathing in my first drag before I entirely cross the threshold. 

*

I finish my smoke and toss the remains in the small trashcan in one corner of the balcony, contemplate lighting another so I'll have an excuse to spend a longer amount of time out here, enjoying the gentle breeze and the soft, warm humidity.

I lean on the banister, gaze over the darkened streets at the swift black waters of the river. Hunting takes me all over America, but I always feel most at home in midwestern cities like this one. I think I will stay out a bit longer.

The sliding doors of the neighboring room whoosh open.

So much for privacy. Guess I'll being going in now, after all.

Sam sweeps out onto a balcony the side rail of which perches only inches from mine, making the two of us mere feet apart. Yup. Definitely going in now. Except. I blink, and blink again. He's lost his jacket, tie, and button-down, so he emerges dressed only in a fine white tank top over his suit pants. Miles of toned golden-brown limbs reveal themselves. Smooth, supple, unmarked skin. Rippling muscles. Dark curls peeping out from the low neckline of his shirt.

"Oh, sorry. I didn't realize you were out here." 

My eyes jump from Sam's distracting chest to his face. "Don't worry," I sneer. "I'm heading in."

Silence. He's ignoring me? He was supposed to give me a snide response or at least glower at me. Instead, the "Apprentice" stares blankly into the distance, his hands wrapped so tightly around the railing his knuckles are white.

I find myself taking a few steps in his direction. "You okay?"

He sighs, runs a hand through his thick waves. "Just spoke to my Dad. And he felt the need to remind me of all the Winchesters who have been Masters and Grand Masters as if somehow I don't feel stressed enough about this case." Bitterness colors his tone.

That certainly fits with the view of John Winchester I've been forming over the past few days. Probably thinks the Men of Letters are the only people of worth. Lowly Hunters (like Bill Harvelle) can die by the hundreds. Still, I'm startled to feel a sudden rush of sympathy for the kid--man--beside me. I tell him, "The Campbells have been the top Hunters in the country for centuries. And my Mom is the best of them. I'm compared to her everywhere I go. Sometimes I feel like I can never live up to the expectations that are on me just because of my last name."

He walks over to the section of his balcony closest to my location. After slowly searching my face, he observes, "Something tells me you've already secured your reputation among the top Hunters." He brushes a bit of imaginary dust off the rail. "I can tell how good you are just from one day. Besides," he raises his eyes to mine, "they wouldn't have picked you otherwise."

The sudden rise of warmth to my cheeks is more a result of the intensity of his gaze than his words. I clear my throat. "You weren't so bad yourself."

Tension prickles between us. What color even are those eyes? They looked grey or blue earlier (during the day) but now they're so deeply dark and so full of sparkles, like the night sky came to live in Sam's orbs and brought the stars with it. And. What am I thinking? Discomfort washes over and through me. I jerk my gaze away, back up so rapidly I knock over the trashcan.

I right it before its miniscule contents roll out.

"Need any help?" Sam has both hands on the banister and an earnest expression, both of which make it clear that he's on the verge of hopping over from his balcony to mine.

What a gentleman! I mean, what a faux-noble douchebag. I mean . . . I should really be self-aware enough to recognize that Sam happens to be exactly my type (or would be if he wasn't one of the self-righteous Men of Letters) and that it really isn't shocking I find him attractive. "I'm fine," I tell Sam. "Just locating the trashcan." I wink.

His lips quirk in amusement. "Glad you found it. You might need that sometime."

When did we start flirting? Bad, bad idea. I fumble for a cigarette, needing something to settle myself. My fingers tremble (hopefully inconspicuously) as I light up. Ahh. Nicotine might be slowly killing me (as if I'll live long enough to die of lung cancer) but, man, does it ever help in situations like these. Clarity fills my brain as the drug fills my bloodstream. I'll allowing my head to get turned by a sexy stranger, just like those wife-killing men we're investigating. 

Hmm. I blow smoke in Sam's direction, notice that his disgusted expression manages to make him adorable and mildly intimidating at the same time. Something about the descriptions of the men's lovers niggles me. I have it!

I run back into my room, ignoring Sam's horrified "You can't smoke in there!", grab the bag with the case info, and race back outside. Clenching the cig between my teeth so my hands remain free, I sort through my notes from earlier today before seeking the photos of the men's murdered wives.

"What are you doing?" Sam stares in open-mouthed confusion.

I hold up a finger. "I'm figuring something out. Give me a minute." I pull out a sheet of blank paper and start sketching. My father was an excellent artist, able to craft swift and detailed drawings to accompany his research on every hunt. When I bemoaned the fact that I failed to inherit his ability, he told me that artistic talent was in the mind, not the hands, and I could teach myself to see the world the way an artist does. My sketches will never be museum-worthy, but I can reproduce the face from a witness' description well enough to be recognizably the person in question. Thirty minutes and three cigarettes later, I have likenesses of all the temptresses (and the male tempter). "Got it," I announce.

"Got what?" Sam unfolds himself from a lazy (and entirely too appealing) sprawl against the building.

"Come see." So what if I want to watch him vault over the railing? It's not like he's incapable of walking over to the hallway to knock on my door.

He hops over to my side with an ease that showcases the power of his rippling muscles and the grace of his long limbs. He leans over me, examines my work in the light spilling from my room. "What've you got?"

I arrange my drawings of the lovers beside the photos of the wives. "Look."

He brushes his finger over one sketch. "They're so similar."

"Exactly. The people they met at the club were basically perfected versions of their wives. Younger, sexier"--I point at the dancer no one knew--"more intelligent, easier to talk to, male, whatever." I tap my finger on the drawing of a young man who could be his boyfriend's wife in masculine form.

He smiles, all glowing eyes and dimpled cheeks. "That's it! Definitely a shifter, then."

I grin back, heedless of the cig dripping ash on my jeans. The thought that I might be in trouble swirls dimly through my brain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might have to up the chapter count. This is turning into a more detailed story than I was expecting.


	5. Oxytocin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This seems like a good time to point out that this will not be an exact retelling of "Sex and Violence."

Sam's POV:

I sleep in later than I have in years thanks to staying up so late watching Dean work the case, impressively showing me why he's considered among the top Hunters despite being only about four years my senior. The way he looked kneeling on the floor of the balcony with papers strewn about him, sketching rapidly (and efficaciously) in the yellow glow pouring out of his hotel room . . . .

Anyway.

I make a beeline for the coffee pot, dump in the first packet of complimentary caffeine my fingers brush across. I have a cup of gloriously hot, delicious-smelling brew in my hands the moment I finish brushing my teeth. Mmmm.

I carry my life-giving ambrosia out onto the balcony, curious to see how the view changes in daylight. 

Dean relaxes against the banister, the morning sun gilding every carefully-spiked lock of hair, every chiseled angle of his inhumanly gorgeous face, every delicate eyelash. His lips curl seductively around the filter of his cigarette, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks in the smoke.

I am not envying a cancer stick. I'm also not stiffening in my sleep pants. Or panting slightly as I gape open-mouthed. Nope. (Yes).

Dean slides the white tube from his pretty mouth, releases the smoke from his lungs in a slow swirling plume out the side. "Spare me." His growling voice might actually be deeper this morning.

I swallow. Hard. "Um, what?"

He turns in my direction, rests an elbow on the railing. "Look, kid. I got the smoking lecture from my mom, my step-mom, my dad"--he winces--"and my sister. And if I didn't listen to them, I certainly won't listen to you." He demonstrates this with a deliberate, calculated drag that removes all the tantalizing sensuality from the action.

I'm quite suddenly reminded that I've always been adamantly anti-smoking. In fact, now that I think about it, Dean should definitely quit before the tobacco pre-ages his beautiful face and starts to detrimentally affect his health. But, "I wasn't planning to say anything. Like that." 

He snorts. "Sure you weren't. It's been at the tip of your tongue since we met."

Someone's prickly this morning. I smother the sigh I want to heave with a gulp of coffee. Hazelnut. Yum. "I-"

He slinks closer. "Or maybe you're just wondering what it's like. Maybe you want to rebel a little now that you're out from under the thumb of those pretentious a-holes." His voice lowers to a purr. "What do you say: Want to try it?" This time he enhances the alluring sexiness of wrapping his lips around that tiny cylinder, drawing in the smoke, releasing it, closing his long-lashed eyes with satisfaction when the nicotine swirls into his system.

I back away until I bump into the edge of my own small balcony. I squeeze the nerve between my eyes. "I have no idea why we're talking about this, but I"--I cast about for something to say, choose the first Hunt-related idea that comes to me--"I think we should visit the prison today."

He frowns, finishes his smoke in silence. "Good idea. Do you want to interview all four of them?" All flirtation, all playfulness, all contrariness melt into cool professionalism. It's almost eerie how quickly one aspect of his personality disappears into another.

"Actually, I want to talk to the prison doctor." I want to know if the shifter left any kind of physical remnant on the men she (or he?) bamboozled. 

A quick nod. "Good idea."

*

Midway through our drive to the prison, Dean turns down the radio, taps the steering wheel three times, and clears his throat, before saying gruffly, "I'm not much of a morning person." It's an apology of sorts, not merely an explanation.

I smile at him, trying not to find his almost grudging admission adorable. "I noticed."

He takes advantage of a red light to peer into my depths. (Or, at least, that's what it feels like). "So, we're good, then?"

"Yeah." I watch him direct his car in a graceful glide around a corner. "So, I take it you don't hate me anymore?"

He snorts. "You're not as prissy as I thought at first."

"Well," I rejoin, "You're not as barbaric as I thought you were."

"Don't be so sure." He winks.

*

I never thought I'd envy prisoners, but when I meet Dr. Cara Roberts, I can't help wondering if it would be worth it to be stuck in jail if it meant getting her hands all over me. She's simply one of the most stunningly beautiful women I've ever seen, all ebony curls and soft lips and impishly glittering eyes.

Dean obviously thinks so too, based on his quiet intake of breath. He pushes in front of me, metaphorically removing his hat as he graces her with a smirk that must send any woman (or man) scrambling to follow him to his room. (I have a dreadful suspicion it would work on me). "So," he asks, "is there anything else you can tell us?" He somehow manages to convey the suggestion that the two of them can head off somewhere together once we've finished exchanging information.

When did I start grinding my teeth?

Dr. Roberts raises a delicate eyebrow at Dean. Turning to me, she comments, "All four men had unusually high levels of oxytocin in their blood when they were brought in."

I bite my lip. That might make sense, given what we know so far of this shape-shifting monster, but-

"They had drugs in their system?" Dean leans forward, clearly interested.

The lovely doctor smiles archly. "You're thinking of oxycodone." She pats his arm, sends me an amused, contemptuous smirk.

This doesn't sit well with me. From my observations, it's clear that Dean is a genius, whose quick deductions rival those of any detective. His lack of formal education only means that he spent more time actually in the field, learning by doing. "It's an easy mistake to make. The words sound the same."

Dean grins. "I just assumed these guys were having some fun."

She flutters her perfectly made-up eyelashes. "Oh, I think they were." She nibbles suggestively on her pen, lifts dancing eyes to meet my gaze.

Dean tenses beside me. A glance down shows his fists clenched at his sides. Does he dislike being out of the loop, or the fact that Dr. Roberts is flirting with me? (Or both?)

I slide a hand onto his shoulder. "Oxytocin is the love hormone. Mothers produce it after giving birth so they can bond with their newborns, and-"

"And adults produce it after orgasms." Dean grins at me, proceeds to lick his lips while dragging his gaze slowly up and down my body.

I flush. "Th-that's right."

Dean lifts his eyes to mine, in a sweep of naturally long, thick, dark eyelashes. "Means these men were well-served." Did his eyes just drop to my crotch?

"Um, right." My mind starts whirling. These men were certainly having plenty of (satisfying) sex, but unless every single one of them orgasmed immediately before getting arrested, the oxytocin levels wouldn't be so unusually high. So there must be something else causing it. What kind of creature injects his victims with love hormone? "Thank you, Doctor. I'll let you know if we need anything else." I head for the door.

"Call me if you need anything." She slithers between me and the door. "Anything at all."

I bob my head. "Will do."

*

I'm deep into the online MOL archives (only accessible by password and three security questions) when Dean bursts into my room with fast food bags. "Wasn't that locked?" I ask, distractedly.

He twinkles. "Might have been. Takes more than a hotel card lock to keep me out."

"I guess so." I could point out that the Letters trained me in lock-picking (and lock-breaking) of all varieties, but I find that I have no wish to wipe that boyish grin off his face. "Anyway, I'm pretty sure we're dealing with a siren."

He carefully sets down the paper bags. "Like those ladies who would sink ships."

I nod. "Exactly. They feed off of sex and love and death."

He pulls up a chair beside me. "So they seduce these guys, make them fall in love, then have them kill their wives?" His lips quirk upward into a half-smile. "Full course meal."

I chuckle. "'Full course meal.' Exactly."

Dean reaches across me to grab one of the bags, pulls out a burger. "Well. The first person we should look at is that doctor. What are the odds that we just happen to meet someone we're both into? You and I aren't exactly identical." He unwraps the sandwich, takes a huge bite, lets out an almost pornographic moan. "Besides. I looked into her and she moved here just before the first murder."

Does this mean he suspected Dr. Roberts as having some kind of involvement already, or does he do a background check on everyone he comes across? (If so, what did he find on me?) "Well, we have to go back there, anyway. The only way to kill these things is with a bronze dagger dipped in the blood of one of their victims."

"Well, then. Let's catch a siren!" He sparkles enthusiastically at me as he takes another bite.

Why am I suddenly wishing this hunt could continue in perpetuity?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might have accidentally given the Dean from this chapter some of Spike's (from Buffy) personality traits.--And now I'm feeling weirdly tempted to write a Sam/Spike crossover fic.


	6. Someone New

Dean's POV:

Sam pauses after getting out of the Impala at the prison, knocks on Baby's roof a couple times. "So"--he gnaws on his lip--"how do you want to do this? I was thinking one of us should distract and interrogate the doctor while the other one breaks out the blood samples."

He looks nervous (and very young), reminding me that this is the kid's first Hunt. He's only a couple years older than Jo. A protective impulse has me circling the car to stand beside him. "Good idea. Why don't you go talk to the sexy doctor and I'll get the blood?"

He blinks. "You sure?--You're the one with experience."

"Yeah, but she liked you better." I wink at him. Actually, it was an almost entirely unprecedented experience for me to be the invisible partner. Since reaching my mid-teens, I've been the one witnesses stared at, flirted with, asked out. Not that I really blame the lovely medicine woman. Sam's suit does nothing to disguise the breadth of his shoulders, the narrowness of his hips, the length of his torso. I, too, occasionally find myself glancing speculatively at the nearest flat surface.

His eyes drop to his (shiny, expensive) shoes and back to my face. "Maybe." He mutters something that sounds like "Not sure why," while brushing his foot over a bit of loose gravel. In a louder tone, he adds, "Why don't you come meet me after you get the blood?--Besides, if you're right, we shouldn't waste any time, you know, before she chooses another victim."

So green, this boy. I take a few steps closer, tap Baby's trunk. "You know how to test her?" I don't want to kill his admiration by confessing that, since I've never faced a siren, I am unsure myself how to recognize one. Would silver work?

Sam straightens. "Unlike shapeshifters, Sirens don't actually take the physical form of another person. It's a sort of glamor, which means their true forms can be seen in a mirror." He pulls a small one out of his jacket pocket. "I also have this." He slides a bronze dagger out of a hidden sheath on his belt. "It won't kill her without the blood, but it should slow her down."

Maybe he's not so green. "Well aren't you a boy scout?"

His preening in response is so slight I almost miss it. "I also have a silver knife, four different kinds of bullets, and a vial of holy water." His lips quirk. "I wanted to be prepared for anything."

I shake my head, grinning. "I guess so."

He grins back. 

I think I can hear the electricity crackling between us. It's both enticing and terrifying and-. I spin around. "We should get going."

"Wait." A hand grasps my wrist, stopping my advancement. A kiss lands on my lips before I've finished turning to see what he wants.

Before I can respond, Sam lets go, backs away. "For luck," he tells me, his lips curving into a lightning-quick smile.

*

My lips don't stop tingling until I bluff my way into the lab area of the hospital wing.

I have no trouble locating the correct storage refrigerator because a tall man stands in front of it, transferring vial after vial of red liquid--presumably blood, almost certainly the exact samples I'm here to collect--into an official-looking cooler. How can I sneak one away from him?

Hearing--or sensing?--my approach, the stranger turns.

My jaw drops and I have to stop myself from exclaiming "Doctor Sexy!"

Of course, he isn't actually the fictional doctor from my favorite show. (That would be absurd). He's a little too tall, a little too ripped, his cheekbones a little too chiseled. But. His chocolate-brown waves fall to his shoulders. His white coat frames his broad-shouldered figure, gives appealing hints of a slim, likely toned body. He wears a well-fitting suit instead of Doctor Sexy's shapeless hospital scrubs. A nice change. Plus--I glance down--cowboy boots. Yes!

He smiles pleasantly, politely at me. "May I help you with something?" Ooh, that voice!--Deep, with faint musical undertones.

"Yes." I flash my fake FBI badge. "Agent Seger." I snap my wallet closed. "I'm investigating murders in Dubuque and I require blood samples from the alleged killers for my research."

He cocks his head, considers me. "Well, Agent, I'm Dr. Sydney from the CDC." He holds out his hand, gives mine a vigorous shake. "And I am researching the possibility that some previously unknown disease led to the temporary madness that drove those men to murder their wives."

The CDC? How can I play this? "I can manage my own research with just one of the samples, if you'll hand one over."

Doctor S caresses my hand instead of releasing it. "Or maybe now would be good time for our agencies to collaborate."

Is he flirting with me?

He lets go of my hand in slow motion, making sure to graze every knuckle of every finger in the process. "Why don't we discuss it over dinner?"

That answers that question: he's most definitely flirting with me. Well. It's not like I mind getting hit on by an attractive man. Besides, I really do need to get a hold of that blood. (I hope Sam manages the potential siren by himself for a touch longer).

*

I worry that Doctor S will take me to a pretentious restaurant where the burgers are overpriced, the atmosphere cold, the conversation stilted. So, I'm more than pleasantly surprised when he directs me to an awesomely retro diner.

We park side by side in the lot. The doc takes a moment to walk admiringly around Baby. "If I'd known the Feds drove cars like this, I'd have applied for the Agency instead of the CDC." He pushes a long lock of hair behind his ear, shakes his head, grins at me.

"Yeah, they don't. I had to get special permission to use my Baby." I suspect the real Agency forces its members to drive the most boring of contemporary vehicles. (Kind of like the one that dropped Sam off the day I met him, come to think of it. But then, the MOL are pretty much the unofficial monster branch of the Feds).

He strides over to me, stands way too close. "That just means you're a man after my own heart."

Music drifts out of the diner, following a canoodling couple that just slipped out. "Don't You (Forget About Me)." My companion sways slightly to the tune, a soft smile lighting his face. "I don't always go for eighties music," he tells me, "but I do like this song."

It's a little on the sappy side, but "Same," I agree easily. But he could only like some eighties tunes because his preference is emo (or worse), so I have to ask, "What do you normally listen to?"

"I'm all about the classic rock." He winks.

I might swoon a little. This guy is almost too perfect to be real. Wait. The Hunter in me takes note. Could he be too perfect to be real? Maybe I should just make an excuse and head back to Sam. Except. I need that blood. Maybe I could clock him, steal the blood, then head back to Sam. Or-

"Hey." Fingers trace the contours of my face. "Whatever you're stressing about, stop."

He kisses me.

I explode into pure adoration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have a problem with Nick, but he was very specifically a version of Sam who's more like Dean. The Dean in this story has no interest in Sam becoming more similar to him. Quite the contrary. I chose (a variation of) Doctor Sexy because he's Dean's favorite tv character and he is distinctly similar to Sam.


	7. Cara

Sam's POV:

I pause just outside Dr. Roberts' office to touch my lips and remember the softness of Dean's mouth. A dart of my tongue across them lets me almost get a tantalizing taste of Dean's unique flavor: mint and smoke and coffee.

What I wouldn't give to be sampling those lips while lying atop the beautiful Hunter in the privacy of my hotel room, one of his enticingly bowed legs winding around my hip as I thrust into his-

" . . . Agent?"

Oh, right. I did just knock on her door, so she has good reason to wonder what I'm doing here. "Hello again, Doctor." I call up a charming smile.

Her eyelids rise coyly. "Hello to you," she purrs. "Is your partner with you?" She cranes her neck to look around and behind me.

"Sorry. It's just me." I shrug one shoulder, but I make certain to quirk my lips in quick half-smile.

She sparkles brighter. "I am all for a tete-a-tete." She ushers me into her office, making a point of rubbing her curves against me as I walk past.

(Between her blatant flirtation and my Dean fantasy, I find I have to cross my legs when I sit down in order to hide an inappropriate bulge. It doesn't help that she chooses to lean against her desk instead of sitting behind it and feels the need to stand so close her slacks tangle with mine while tendrils of warmth from her calf tickle my leg. I gulp.

"So, what did you need?" She draws her red-painted lower lip into her white teeth, reaches out to run one manicured nail down my arm. It's clear she's not exactly referring to standard medical consultations.

Given the slightest encouragement, she'll be in my lap. I clear my throat. "So, Doctor-"

"Call me Cara," she interrupts, leaning closer to grant me an excellent view of her barely-covered chest.

"Okay. Cara." I shoot her a swift smile. "You said that the killers all had unusually high amounts of oxytocin in their blood. Almost as if they'd all just had sex before being arrested."

She nods. The tip of her shoe snakes beneath the hem of my pants.

I freeze, unsure if I should shift away, ignore her, or play along with her seduction game. (It wouldn't exactly be a hardship: she's gorgeous. It's not her fault that no one compares to the incandescent beauty of Dean Campbell). "All right. Um. So, I was wondering how their blood levels compared to those who definitely have just had sex." My face heats up, not getting the message, apparently, that I'm an adult who no longer feels embarrassment when discussing intimate matters.

Her foot drops out of my pant leg as she rises to her feet. "As a matter of fact, I do have that information." She circles her desk, presses a few buttons on her computer. "Occasionally my patients come see me right after their conjugal visits." She winks before turning her attention to her screen.

I won't get a better opportunity than this. I surreptitiously slide the mirror out of my pocket and twist my torso under the guise of stretching so I can peer backwards at the doctor through the glass. I catch a glimpse of a dark curl falling over a perfect peaches-and-cream complexion before it's hastily pushed away by an alabaster hand. Not a siren, then.

"Here we go." Cara stops typing and looks up. 

"And?" I thrust the mirror out of sight.

She purses her lips. "And the amount of oxytocin in their blood was half that of your subjects."

I take a breath, nod. "Okay."

She raises an eyebrow. "You're not surprised."

I think fast. "No. We suspect they were injected with the hormone to manipulate their behavior." I stand up, hold out my hand. "I should be going."

She slinks to her feet, glides over to me. "So soon?" She slowly licks her red-painted lips, rendering them shiny and appealing.

But not as appealing as Dean's pale pink, bee-stung lips. "Yes." But there's one more test I need to do first, unbeknownst to her. "But why don't you write down your number in case I have further questions." I hand her a silver pen.

There's no reaction when she takes it.

*

Upon discovering that Dean is no longer in the lab, I head for the parking lot. Only to find a blank space where my partner's Baby was parked. Now what?

"Need a ride?" A pair of lush breasts brush against me as Cara slithers around my side. 

I shrug. "I guess I do."

She looks way too ecstatic about it. (I might have to let her down later).

*

I'm relieved to spot the Impala parked in front of the hotel. Still, I would really like to know why Dean stranded me at the prison instead of coming to find me. (It's not like I wasn't exactly where I said I would be).

Maybe my kiss scared him off?

Whatever the reasoning, I would really like to hear it. Immediately.

I unclench my fists and beeline for Dean's room. My knock goes unheard (or ignored?) so I quickly and methodically pick the lock. (Not so easy with card-readers, but I was taught by the best). I slip silently inside, glance flashingly around.

Dean hovers near the bed, entwined with another man. (Seriously?!) The stranger nibbles on his neck, murmurs in his ear, caresses his biceps with one hand and his bottom with the other, while Dean . . . makes a phone call (?). "Yes, now," he orders whoever he's talking to. "You can fly . . . No . . . Fine . . . See you in a few hours . . . Yes . . . Bye, Sis."

He's telling his sister to fly out to visit him while he canoodles with his new (?) lover. Um, what?

Actually . . . .

This isn't the usual M.O. of our siren, but there's no question that Dean's baby sister is the person he loves most in the world, so if a siren targeted my partner, that's who she (he?) would have him kill. I slide the bronze knife out of its sheath as I creep forward.

"Stop." In the blink of an eye, Dean's siren moves from embracing the Hunter to standing directly in front of me, his supernatural strength squeezing my wrist until I'm forced to drop the dagger. "That's better." He uses his free hand to grip my chin, turn my face this way and that. "Ah, yes. I see now."

"See what?" I grit.

"In another couple of weeks, I would find myself looking a lot more like you." He chuckles. "As it is, I get to look like a cross between you and Dean's favorite celebrity."

Favorite celebrity? I squint at him. Oh. "Doctor Sexy."

"Bingo." He nods proudly, as if I'm a particularly precocious youngster. "I also wouldn't have to get Dean to send for his sister."

I consider this as I ponder the best way to disentangle myself, grab the dagger, poke Dean in a nonlethal area, and use his blood to make the dagger into an affective weapon against the monster holding me. "So you think Dean could fall for me?"

The siren grips my other wrist, immobilizing my upper body. "He's well on his way. Or"--another chuckle--"he was. Now, you see, he's forgotten your existence." He nods in Dean's direction. Sure enough, my partner sends him a sappily-adoring simper of a smile.

I gag. "Okay. You've made your point. Why don't you let him go?"

A shifty smirk. "I don't think so." He slams his mouth to mine, thrusts his tongue inside.

I struggle. Have to get away before his saliva infects me. Have to . . . . Mmm. What an amazing kisser. Such soft lips, such a talented tongue! I kiss back, wind my (free--why is that surprising?) arms around his back, pull him flush against my front.

"That's more like it," he mutters into my neck.

What's more like what? Oh, I don't care. All that matters is that whatever it is seems to have pleased the beautiful man in my arms. Hey, isn't there a bed in here? I pull away just long enough to check. Yes. Must get to the bed. I maneuver us over there. Only to bump into the yielding warmth of another person. A rival? No. Yes. "Dean."

"Sam," he replies.

We peer warily at each other. How does Dean's presence affect my new relationship with the handsome siren?

"You know, I'm not really into threesomes," the creature in question muses. "Why don't you two fight each other? The survivor gets to be with me."

I can only be with my love if I kill my Hunting partner? Okay. That's not even a question. I throw myself at Dean.

"I don't think so," a nearby voice comments. There's a sudden blinding flash of pain in my shoulder. I squawk, grabbing it. Which gives Dean an opening. With a howl, he knocks me on my back, whips his hands around my neck. The world grows dim. I mouth "I love you, siren" as blackness starts to overtake me.

Abruptly, the pressure disappears from my throat. Colors return as I cough the air back into my lungs.

"Sam. Sammy, are you okay? I'm so sorry." Dean's rambling.

"It's not your fault," I choke out, reaching over to lay a comforting hand on the closest body part I can reach. His knee.

"This is touching. I'm starting to think I should have let you kill each other," a cool female voice observes.

I sit up. "Cara? What are you doing here?" She perches on the bed, twirling my bronze knife and watching drops of blood swirl off it. On the floor at her feet lies a grey body, vaguely feminine in shape. Oh. That would explain why I'm no longer under the creature's thrall. "Are you a Hunter?"

"Not exactly. Not exactly Cara, either." Her eyes flash black.

"Demon," I hiss, fumbling for my gun with one hand and the correct cartridge of bullets with the other. (They're labeled in Braille so as to be categorized unseen).

She files her nails with the dagger. "Won't work."

"We'll see." I slam the demon-killing bullets into my gun and pull the trigger the moment I point it at her heart.

A smoking hole appears in Cara's crisp blouse. The demon fingers it. "Told you." She aims her familiarly flirtatious grin in my direction. "Your boyfriend's Kurdish knife won't work either." She thrusts a thumb to her left, where, sure enough, Dean sneaks up to her, knife in hand. She flips her hand and telekinetically sends him flying. "Now then. Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Abaddon, Knight of Hell."


	8. Abaddon

Dean's POV:

The blackness slowly fades away, replaced by an awareness of sore spots on my shoulder, hip, and knee. Not to mention the blinding pain in my head. Another concussion to add to my growing collection. Whoo-freaking-hoo.

I gingerly bend and straighten each limb to make certain nothing's broken. Good. 

The rushing of my blood quiets and other sounds make their way to my ears. The whooshing of the air conditioner. The laugh track from the sitcom playing quietly on my room's tv. Loud, panting breaths. The muted thud of feet pacing over the thick carpet. And. Is that Latin?

I lift my head to find Sam defiantly facing the demon wearing Dr. Roberts. The words spilling from his lips are unquestionably an exorcism, but not one that I've heard before. The twitching, jerking, borderline thrashing of the demon makes it clear how powerful an incantation it is. (If we make it out of this, I will definitely have to ask Sam for a copy). 

Sam's melodic voice cuts off abruptly. 

What? Why? Or maybe how?

"That's enough of that, Samuel," the demon purrs. Abaddon, right? That's who she said she is? She squeezes his neck tighter, cutting off his air supply. "I don't fancy a trip downstairs just yet." Her red-painted lips curve upwards. "Not until I take you with me, anyway."

Sam kicks her in the shin, spins out of her grip. Instead of interrogating her--like I would have done--he immediately restarts his exorcism exactly where he left off.

She shuts him up by telepathically throwing him across the room. He lands in the kitchenette, smacking concerningly hard against the sharp edge of the counter. "All you're doing is delaying the inevitable, Samuel." She marches up to him, lifts him by his neck. "If you succeed, I'll just come back. And instead of just wiping out the vile house of Winchester, I will take down the entire Men of Letters. Is that really what you want?"

I'm running over there before I make the conscious decision to rise to my feet.

"Not so fast." Abaddon removes one hand from Sam's throat to send me flying. She tosses me a quick smirk over her shoulder. "Not sure what you thought you could achieve, anyway, Hunter. There's only one weapon that can kill me."

Sam takes advantage of her momentary distraction to free himself and throw himself on top of her. "Run, Dean!" he growls. "And call the Letters. Tell them you need the First Blade!" Man and demon wrestle, but Sam remains on top, biceps straining through the ripping material of his suit. "I can hold her."

A tittering laugh. "No, you can't." She slithers out from under him. "Besides, even if your little friend calls for help, it will take hours to ship the Blade from the Jerusalem chapter house. You'll be dead long before. Plus," she leans down to murmur in his ear in a parody of intimacy, "It wouldn't work anyway. Not unless you know where to find my dear friend Cain."

I only catch that last because I'm straining my ears as I creep forward.

Sam's freakishly strong and holding his own so far, but Abaddon is among the deadliest demons in existence. She will win and she's already gloating at that inevitability. "You know, Sam,"--she licks up his neck--"Cara in here really does think you're hot. She's enjoying our wrangling even if it's not quite what she had in mind."

Sam bares his teeth, rolls them back over, starts reciting his exorcism again.

I take advantage of Abaddon's distraction to dive for my duffel. Her comments gave me an idea. Something that should work, if Sam can just keep her occupied long enough . . . . 

A gleeful giggle. She perches on his stomach, one hand silencing him by stuffing his mouth with fingers. "Tell me, Samuel, how long did dear Josie wait to marry your grandpa?--Was sweet Millie even cold in her grave?" She removes her fingers one by one, making a point to caress his lips.

He glares. "You bi-!"

She slams her hands back onto his face. "None of that," she hisses.

I shuffle through my duffel faster, throwing items haphazardly onto the floor. Once it's empty enough, I can sweep my hand along the bottom, feeling for . . . . There! My thumb slides into the hidden groove. I whisper, "Patefacio," and the secret pocket opens.

Crack!

A white-faced Sam stares open-mouthed at a gleeful Abaddon. She stretches the neck she clearly just deliberately snapped. "There's no saving Cara now," she crows, "So why don't you do us both a favor and stop it with the silly dead languages?"

I can almost see the storm cloud darkening Sam's visage. "That just means I won't have to hold back," he growls, followed by a punch that flings her several feet. 

Wow.

Before she can retaliate, he leaps upon her and immobilizes her. Instead of beating the demon bloody--like I expect--he collects himself and begins to recite with the confidence of a man who knows he's won.

I'd better be quick. (Something tells me Abaddon will lay waste to the world the next chance she gets).

I snatch my hidden belonging from my bag and march over to the pair. Sam's blink of surprise moves him far enough out of the way for me to aim and catch her right in the center of her forehead. She screams, fiery light burning through the smoke of her true form. A handful of jerks, a few feeble twitches, then stillness.

Abaddon, Knight of Hell, lies dead.

*

"Where did you get that?" Sam sits beside me on the bed, where we've retreated to catch our breath and our bearings.

"You know what this is?" I run a finger down the barrel.

His body is still noticeably shaking, but his voice is steady when he replies, "Yes. That's the legendary Colt that can kill anything. Clearly it works." He gestures at the mangled body a few feet in front of us. "We've been searching for it for years."

A chill washes over me. "Well, you're not getting it. Samuel Colt left it to my family for protection. It stays with us."

He bites his lip. "I'm not going to take it from you. I didn't mean to give that impression."

I rub one of my fresh bruises. "Good."

An uncomfortable silence.

Sam clears his throat. "I should call this in. Get a clean-up crew here."

Because the Men of Letters have clean-up crews. Of course they do. Wouldn't want to do the dirty work themselves. "Yeah. I need to call my sister, anyway. Tell her not to come." While trying to prevent her sharp mind from picking up that a bespelled me planned to bring her here to bludgeon her to death at the behest of a monster. She doesn't need to know that.

Sam stands up, looks around at the aftermath of two paranormal fights, huffs a sigh. He turns to me. "Want to relocate to my room?"

I beat him out the door.

*

I finish my smoke, toss it into the trashcan Sam pointedly dragged onto his balcony.

I saunter into the room and stutter to a standstill when I spot a shirtless Man of Letters toweling his hair dry. "I didn't realize . . . um . . . I should go." Since when do I stammer?

"Sorry," he says. "I really needed a shower. I just feel like I'll never be clean again." He shudders.

Right. He handled everything with the siren and the demon so well I forgot how green he is, forgot he's no seasoned Hunter. My confidence returns. "I get it." I slink over to him. "Besides, it means there's more for me to look at." I give him a very slow once-over.

His chiseled cheeks bloom red.

I slide one finger over his bicep and across his chest, pausing at the location where an anti-possession sigil inks my own skin. "There's something I don't get, though. You MOLs have all this knowledge at your disposal. So why am I the one covered in protective tattoos? Shouldn't you have at least one?" Granted, I can't see his entire body. My eyes drop speculatively to his clothed groin.

His hands fly to cover the area. "I don't need one."

"Sure you don't." Is he really this dense? "You know, you're lucky Ms. Demon in there"--I jerk my thumb at the wall separating our rooms--"didn't decide to take you for a ride."

He lifts his chin, a smug expression crossing his face. "What makes you think she didn't try?"

"What?!" How long was I out?

"Every article of my clothing is sewn with protective spells and sigils." He taps the shirt laid out beside him on the bed. "No tattoos necessary."

I twist my finger through one of his curls of chest hair. "But you're not wearing clothes all the time."

He points at the slender faux leather bracelet circling his wrist, then twists a ring on his pinkie finger. "I don't remove everything."

My train of thought gets stuck at clothing removal. And at activities that work best post clothing removal. A glance south reveals that Sam's thoughts are trending in the same direction, so I rise onto my tiptoes and kiss him.

My brain doesn't come back online until the two of us are tangled half-naked on the bed--and it only does because I start wondering if Letters Boy has any lube. Condoms might be a good idea, too. I could always run and get some from my room, if-

If the clean-up crew is finished removing all traces of monsters and tussles and tragic doctor corpses.

I jerk away from Sam.

He blinks at me. "Are you okay?"

I sit up. "Yeah." I push my hand through the short spikes of my hair, feel the remnants of gel shake off and sprinkle around me. "No."

Sam sits up, too. "Is it because I'm a Man of Letters?"

I pick at one of my nails. "Kind of."

He shrinks into himself. How does someone so gigantic manage to look so small?

One minute he's all dominance and flashing eyes and sex appeal, the next he's shy and vulnerable. And I am falling fast for both aspects of his character. "I think I could get past the Letters thing, but." I stop, nibble on the nail I was picking at.

He raises an eyebrow. "But?" he prompts.

I close my eyes for a long moment. "There's something I need to know." I take his hand, peer at his face until he lifts his eyes to meet mine. "Do you have records of the Hunters your Agents have done cases with?"

He's nodding as he hops off the bed to retrieve his laptop. A few keystrokes later, he hands it to me. "Just type in the name here." A pause, then, quietly, "I'm really trusting you here."

I write "William Harvelle," heave a breath, press "enter." What pops up is a detailed account of a rugaru Hunt that turned out to be in the backyard of a werewolf pack. John Winchester and my dad took down the wolves, but not before Bill was grievously injured. "I'm dying anyway," he apparently said, "but I'm covered in blood. That rugaru won't be able to resist the smell. Use me as bait." And John did.

I swallow tears as I close the laptop. "Thank you."

He doesn't look at me. "You're welcome. Did it help to get some closure?" He must have noticed what I was reading.

"It did." In fact, I can feel a weight of anger and resentment I didn't realize I was carrying slide off my shoulders. "It really did."

"Good." Sam climbs off the bed. "Um. They should be done by now."

I grab his wrist. "Where will you go after you get your Agent certification?"

"I guess wherever they send me." He steps right up to the bed, so that he's standing as close to me as he can get without hopping back onto it.

I gift him my trademark smirk. "Why don't you come with me, instead?"

He grins. "I think I can arrange that."

His laptop nearly gets broken when we jump right back in where we left off.


End file.
